Valeriusz Kantas erupted from the shadows, a specter of controlled fury made manifest. His cry had been sharp, tearing at the hushed air of the glasshouse. Márton Fehér crumpled, a soundless shudder running through his frame as Valeriusz’s gaze, now devoid of its usual cold detachment, burned into him. It was a gaze of raw, wounded betrayal, sharper than any blade. “You…” Valeriusz’s voice was a low growl, each syllable laced with a decade of stolen peace. “You wove this cage. You watched me break within it.” He advanced, not with haste, but with a terrifying, deliberate pace that promised a reckoning far worse than any immediate violence. Márton recoiled, his face bleached of all color, unable to meet the intensity of his lord’s eyes. He could only nod, a pathetic bob of his head. Eszter stepped forward, her hand reaching out, not to Márton, but to Valeriusz. “Valeriusz,” she said, her voice steady, pulling his attention away from the cowering steward. “Look at me. He was blackmailed. He confessed. The regent, Orsolya, is the one who took everything from you, not yourself. The truth is here now.” His eyes, still alight with a dangerous fire, flickered to her, then back to Márton. The fury remained, a scorching inferno, but beneath it, a profound, aching sorrow began to spread, slowly eclipsing the rage. He swayed, as if the very ground beneath him had shifted. The truth was a physical blow, leaving him breathless and exposed. “The glass lies,” Valeriusz repeated, the words a bitter echo in the quiet space. His voice was hoarse, thick with a grief so deep it seemed to resonate from the very stones of the Spire. “She knew.” He looked down at the silver casing in Eszter’s hand, then at the strip of parchment Márton still clutched. “She left this for me.” Márton, finding a sliver of courage, spoke, his voice a ragged plea. “The late countess suspected the alteration. She knew what my family was capable of. She made me promise. If I ever truly failed, if I could not undo the weaving, her true message would find you.” He pointed to the pendant. “It was enchanted to respond to the Spire’s true sight. A counter-spell. A way to show the truth that the glass could not.” Valeriusz’s head snapped up, a new light entering his eyes. Not the cold, distant light he usually wore, but a sharp, burning clarity. The Spire. His prison. His weapon. He’d seen it as a tool of control, a means to monitor his own supposed descent into madness. Now, the labyrinth of silent halls and polished panes took on a different aspect. If the glass lied, then it could also be made to tell the truth. If it hid the past, it could also reveal it. “The scrying panes,” he said, the words a low, intense utterance. “They don’t just show the present. They hold echoes. Faint impressions of what was. She would have known this. She would have used this.” He strode past Márton, his earlier rage now channeled into a desperate, focused resolve. “My study. The master glass. It’s the nexus. If anything can show us, it’s that.” Eszter followed, her steps swift on the flagstones, cold sweat gathering at the nape of her neck. Márton, still shaking, gathered himself and trailed behind, a shadow of his former self, his guilt a tangible weight around him. The journey to Valeriusz’s study felt different, the Spire’s oppressive silence now charged with a new, volatile energy. The glass walls, usually a source of unease, now felt like potential allies, their smooth, reflective surfaces holding untold depths. Valeriusz’s study was austere, dominated by a massive, oval pane set into the far wall, its frame wrought from the same dark, vein-like iron that pierced the Spire’s construction. The glass itself was utterly unblemished, reflecting the room with unnerving clarity, yet it seemed to possess a deeper, inkier quality than the other scrying panes. “This glass,” Valeriusz said, his voice tight with anticipation. “It was built with a different purpose. To see beyond mere space. It’s the heart of the Spire’s sight.” He turned to Eszter. “The keepsake. Give it to me.” Eszter handed him the tarnished piece, its warmth a familiar comfort in her palm. Valeriusz held it, his thumb tracing the worn patterns on its casing, a profound sadness settling over his features. This was a piece of his family's past, a final act of defiance against the killers who had stolen his sanity. “How do we… activate it?” Eszter asked, her voice barely a breath. “My kin’s blood,” Márton interjected, stepping forward. “It was charmed to respond to our line, and to the silver casing. She called it a ‘truth-key’. It needs a touch of Kantas blood, and the casing’s presence, to show what the Spire has truly witnessed.” Valeriusz hesitated for only a second, then pressed the silver casing against his palm, the sharp edge of its worn filigree biting into his skin. A bead of his blood welled up, bright and stark against his pale skin. He then pressed his bleeding palm against the center of the dark glass, placing the silver piece precisely over the crimson mark. The moment they connected, a low hum vibrated through the room, a sound that seemed to emanate from the very structure of the Spire itself. The pane’s surface rippled, not like water, but like solidified smoke disturbed by an unseen hand. The clear reflection of the study wavered, dissolving into a murky swirl of greys and shadows. Then, fragments began to coalesce. Not a clear image, but a series of ghostly, disjointed flashes, like shards of memory scattered on a black pool. They saw a room, dimly lit, unmistakably the West Wing, but without the layer of enchanted ice. Two figures struggled, their movements frenzied, blurred. One was tall, slender, with a shock of dark hair—Valeriusz’s father. The other, shorter, rounder, but with a sudden, horrifying familiarity—Regent Orsolya, her face contorted into a mask of cruel determination. A flash of something bright, metallic—a blade, indeed. Not the family’s ritual dagger, but a longer, thinner thing, catching a momentary glint of moonlight. *Silver.* Márton’s translation echoed in Eszter’s mind. Another shift, faster now. His mother, her face etched with terror, her hands fumbling with something small, tucked hastily into the soil of a potted fern in a conservatory, a place of vibrant green amidst the chaos. The conservatory. The one Eszter had discovered. She had hidden something there, a last desperate act before she too was consumed by the unfolding horror. The images accelerated, a terrifying montage. Orsolya’s triumph, the blade now stained. Another figure, tall and cloaked, stepped into the frame, his face shrouded, but his build powerful, predatory. An assassin. The third person Eszter had suspected, the one who fought back. The glass strained, its hum rising in pitch, growing shrill. The cloaked figure turned, and slowly, agonizingly, the cowl began to slip. A jawline, sharp and cruel. A scar, faint but distinctive, just beneath the eye. The assassin’s face, for the first time, began to solidify, to reveal itself, bringing with it a horrifying clarity to the decade of lies. Just as the features sharpened, as the truth of the murderer’s accomplice was about to be fully unveiled, a violent, jarring crack rent the air. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the center of the surface, originating from the very spot where Valeriusz’s talisman and blood met the glass. The hum intensified into a shriek, and the images dissolved into a chaotic maelstrom of light and shadow, then winked out, leaving the glass dark and still, its new flaw staring back at them like a shattered eye.

The Scrying Mirror's Secret